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by nightangelerik



Category: Le Fantôme de l'Opéra | Phantom of the Opera & Related Fandoms, Repo! The Genetic Opera (2008)
Genre: Crossover, Deviates From Canon, F/M, Just to be safe, Minor Character Death, Origin Story, Pre-Canon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-05
Updated: 2016-03-05
Packaged: 2018-05-24 20:03:21
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,699
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6165049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nightangelerik/pseuds/nightangelerik
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Phantom of the Opera set in the world of Repo! The Genetic Opera. Erik is GeneCo's best Repo Man, with a perfect repossession record. That is, until he is given the assignment of one Gustave Daae. Now Erik must deal with the fallout, namely Daae's young and defenseless daughter. A daughter that GeneCo wants in exchange.</p>
            </blockquote>





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**Author's Note:**

> My very first story posted to AO3! How exciting! 
> 
> This story is a result of what happens when an idea won't be put to rest. I don't know if it should have been done, but here it is. I hope you all enjoy!

The night was like any other in the abominable, polluted world in which he lived. The smog blanket that hung over the city was just as cloying and thick, blocking out any trace of the sun’s light that tried to permeate the chemical overhang. He felt it very much matched his mood, which was, in a word, dark. 

He had been sent out on yet another mission by Rotti Largo, the unimaginative pile of dung that kept his evenings under lock and key. Instead of seeing to his own affairs and pleasures, he was Rotti’s lapdog. One of many, perhaps, but his best lap dog, adept at sniffing out any quarry. It was not as if he had a choice. They had an understanding, after all. And for what? Six or seven botched surgeries that, in the end, hadn’t even been effective. He was still hideous, still monstrous, only now it was inside as well as out.

Indebtedness could be such a bitch.

Repossession wasn’t especially difficult work, but it was crude. He had seen more things on a weekly basis in his tenure as Repo Man than he had ever seen in the media. Prostitutes, thieves, beggars, swindlers, addicts, entire races of scum too low for notice leached the world of every beautiful and precious entity that existed, leaving nothing behind . Where once there might have been a trace of goodness, the desperation of the masses had sucked it away. 

There was nothing to hope for now. Nothing, perhaps, except for a quiet and painless way out.

But he was beholden, and Rotti Largo would be damned before he lost his best ‘investment’. He was the only one on Rotti’s roster, after all, who had a perfect repossession record.

But things changed.

His quarry tonight was no different than his usually prey. 45. Male. 5’10”. Salt and pepper hair. Blue eyes. Name: Daae. Lived in the apartment building off of Madison, Number 561. 

The man had a laundry list of organ surgeries to make payments on. He tutted. It was usually this way. Why settle for just one surgery when you could have six and finance them all?

Six months past payment on his heart surgery. Thirteen months past payment on his left hip. Sixteen months on his right kidney. 

Records also showed that the kidney surgery hadn’t been entirely successful. And now his left kidney was failing, too.

Perhaps this job would be easy, and he’d find Daae dead in his apartment. 

When he broke down the door at #561, Daae hadn’t been dead. At least, not yet. He had been lying in his bed, chest barely rising and falling to indicate continued life, his eyes as yellow as his. He could tell right away that he wasn’t long for this world.

When Daae jerked his head up, he hadn’t appeared particularly surprised. He gave a shallow breath to indicate that he was aware, but his eyes were closed.

“So then, my friend,” Daae said hoarsely, his voice barely more than a whisper. “You’ve come to take back my financed organs, have you?”

The Repo Man said nothing, only continued to stare at the dying man behind his black, oxygenated helmet. 

Daae nodded slowly to himself, as if in acceptance. “I had thought you might. But if you would perhaps permit me a moment of peace...one final restitution...my eyesight has been failing me for some time now…”

The silent man waited, pestering curiosity and some familiar, ancient emotion poking at the unforeseen cracks in his armor. 

Daae coughed. “There is a picture on the bureau. Taken about three months ago. A girl with blonde hair. I told her to have a picture developed, not wanting to let her believe my sight was truly gone and...well…” He gestured to the bureau. The Repo Man followed the direction of his hand with his eyes, and found the picture which the man indicated. 

“Would you describe her to me?”

The Repo Man looked back at the man on the bed. Daae’s brow was furrowed. In pain, most likely. He had no doubt these were his last moments. 

Suppressing a growl of frustration at his weakness, he obeyed. He strode over to the bureau, held the picture up to eye level, and began to describe the girl.

“She is...young. Nineteen, perhaps, or twenty.”

“Twenty,” Daae quietly confirmed, breaths heavier now. That would be the fluid in his lungs. “Her birthday was four months ago. June.” 

The Repo Man did not respond, but merely continued.

“Yellow hair. Curls. She has blue eyes, and….symmetrical features.” In truth, she was pretty - quite pretty, in fact, but he would never say that out loud. He felt an odd stirring when he looked at her framed face.

Daae smiled. “Does she look happy?”

The Repo Man glanced at Daae. His smile was easy, unforced. He was picturing this girl, his daughter, no doubt. What would be the kindest thing to do in this situation?

“She seems...peaceful.”

Daae sighed. “That’s my girl. Like her mother. The sweetest creatures ever to live.” He paused, and gratitude infused his voice. “You have a pleasant voice, my friend.”

He grunted. The Repo Man put the picture down, feeling uncomfortable. He slowly walked back over to the bed, but paused when he noticed a wooden case on the floor. He toed it with his boot, curious as to its contents. Surely it was not...they were so rarely found these days...

“Do you play?” Daae asked abruptly.

The Repo Man glanced up, startled. “I did...once,” he admitted.

“As did I. Before…” He stopped, his chest working traitorously to supply him with oxygen, only it furthered the drowning of his lungs. Moved by something Erik was rarely, if ever, moved by, he set down his bag and removed not his tools, but a vial and a needle.

He injected a substance into the crook of Daae’s elbow, and watched with mute satisfaction as the tension left the man’s body. 

Perhaps he did it for the pretty daughter Daae left behind, or for the former musician who could no longer read music with his own eyes. 

But perhaps it was really for Erik, and that too seemed just as good a reason.

As Daae took his final breaths, he couldn’t help but ask the name of the man who showed mercy. 

“I am Erik.” 

Daae’s eyelids fluttered fleetingly. “Ah.” He sighed. And then he was dead.

Erik stared at the body on the bed, wondering what he would do now. The organs could still be effective posthumously of course, but he couldn’t bring himself to carve up this man in his own bed. It was too...indelicate. He could come up with some concocted story. The man ran into a toxic waste plant, rather than be carved up. It had been done before. The organs were unsalvageable, but the people who chose that fate always perished. Some ways were more heinous than others to go. At least in that case, they could stand on their own two feet and face their maker with dignity. 

It wasn’t about the money, anyways. It never was.

He was still deciding how he would explain this when he heard the front door slam open and shut. “Papa! Are you here? I’m back from the drug store! They didn’t have exactly what we needed, of course, but I got something that might lessen the pain…”

He was out the window and fleeing into the night before Daae’s daughter caught sight of him.

 

He told himself he came back from the violin.

It definitely wasn’t because of the girl.

At heart, Erik was a musician, and he prized nothing more than music. His first violin had been lost years ago, likely traded off in a moment of sheer, blinding hunger. As a child abandoned by their parents, already hooked on Zydrate at the age of 12, his ability to make rational judgments wasn’t what it should had been. Rather than cherishing his violin, his fondest possession, he had traded it away like it was nothing, all for the sake of another hit. The quasi-memory of that transaction still haunted him.

To have the opportunity to gain an instrument was a great temptation. With Daae dead, the instrument would remain unclaimed, and unplayed. And while he didn’t know Daae especially well, he had a feeling that old man wouldn’t begrudge a fellow musician his desire to feel the wood under his fingertips once more.

It should have been child’s play, claiming that violin, but when he returned to Daae’s residence it was gone.

He had searched every inch of the apartment to no avail. Confusion came prior to rage, which sparked instantaneously. There was only one explanation for where it could have disappeared to. And it had to do with the girl.

He hadn’t anticipated her being a hindrance. Surely she would be out, running some errand or engaging in some pittance of employment. Wherever she was now, she had taken the violin with her. 

He decided to do some research on the girl, hoping it would enlighten him to her character and hopefully lead him to the violin.

For the violin, and no other reason.

Her name was Christine, and like Daae said, she was 20. Her mother was Genevieve Daae, a soprano, and had been in the employ of the opera house before it was quarantined and shut down. Daae too had worked there, and that was how they met. The girl had not attended public school - most likely to keep her safe - and had had the privilege of tutors over the years. Of course she hadn’t attended any kind of college. She held odd jobs, babysitting and tutoring mostly. She was currently serving as the housekeeper to an established elderly woman living on the outskirts of the city, and spent most of her weekdays and nights with her.

Finding this knowledge fortuitous, Erik took to shadowing the girl in her comings and goings from her place of employment. She rarely stopped, and it was usually to the grocery or drug store. Erik became frustrated. Would she not give him any clue as to where the violin was? The place she had sold it to, perhaps, or the person? Was it at the old woman’s house?

 

He followed her there one night and slipped in, unseen. The house was modestly small, yet its adornments were luxurious. The woman had a piano, and Erik felt a stab of pain as he looked at it. The ivory keys beckoned to him becomingly, but he resisted. Where was the violin?

All other pieces of value were on display, no doubt. There were few nooks and crannies. Was it possible it wasn’t here?

Just when Christine re-entered the room, Erik slipped back out the window, but kept it open to hear her any snippets of conversation. 

It was quiet for a time. The old woman must have retired early, or was out of the house. All Erik could hear for a time was the quiet, domestic sound of Christine tidying up the house. But then-

The sweetest, most melodic noise that ever man did create poured forth from the little home and soared into Erik’s ears. He staggered under the onslaught, and sprawled onto the ground gracelessly. He was shell-shocked. Never before had he heard a more beautiful voice, so profound, clear and pure! It was as if a tiny drop of heaven had made its way through the smog and had descended upon the earth. 

Was such beauty even possible?

The violin was long forgotten. Erik couldn’t think about anything else but her voice.

And then he made the mistake of peeking over the window ledge and looking at her. 

If hearing her alone was enough to shock the man, seeing her and hearing her completely dumbfounded him. He found something as simple as breathing difficult. He longed to take off the black mask he wore to cover himself when he was off-duty, but didn’t dare.

He had to find a way to protect this girl. She would surely see tough times ahead with the absence of her father. She was all alone in the world with no one to take care of her. The idea of the voice disappearing...forever... 

Erik departed. He needed to plan.

 

It was nearly a week after finding Daae that he returned to Geneco for his next assignment. He hadn’t received one yet, and while it was not unusual to go days on end without getting one, he needed to be sure of the status quo.

He had been AWOL since then, pondering his actions. Why had he hesitated? He had broken his track record, and for what? A dying man who may or may not have played him for a fool? 

Why did he care enough to lessen Daae’s torment, to end his suffering, instead of harvesting his organs like he was supposed to? 

And for that matter, why the sudden interest in and concern for Daae’s daughter? 

In the end, he didn’t regret any of it. And that was the scariest part.

There would be consequences. There always were when someone disappointed Rotti Largo, but Erik wasn’t worried about him. HIs allegiance to Rotti, to the arrangement they had, was mutually beneficial. The moment it no longer was, Erik would be gone without a trace. 

When he stepped into Rotti’s office, he was overcome with the smell of embalming fluid and cigar smoke. Rotti was sitting behind this desk, accompanied by two other men - lower level managers of Geneco, no doubt. Rotti alone held total autonomy, but that didn’t mean he could do everything on his own. They were intently examining a plethora of organs spread out on the desk, poking each one every so often.

“Ah, Erik,” Rotti greeted, waving him in. “Just the man for the job. Tell us, which brain, from your experience, looks the healthiest?” 

He usually found this sort of thing distasteful. He knew what he was, but he didn’t glorify it, didn’t enjoy it. He was simply doing a job.

He barely gave the specimens a look before he replied, “They are passable, but the common man desperate enough for a transplant wouldn’t be able to tell the difference anyways.”

Rotti stood, coming around the side of the desk and towards Erik. He clasped him on the shoulder congenially, and if he noticed Erik’s tensing, he didn’t comment on it. “Of course! I knew we could rely on your input, Erik,” he said with a chortle. He turned back to the two others in the room. “You two, get out.”

They rose, shot Erik disdainful looks, and left.

Erik ignored them. “You wanted to see me.” It was not a question.

“Yes, Erik. Please sit down.”

He was always on his guard around Rotti. In truth, he trusted the man more when he was exhibiting his ruthless side. When he was calm and collected, Erik could only wonder at what was brewing below.

“How did the other night go?” Rotti asked, his expression one of polite curiosity, giving nothing away. 

Erik’s was the same behind the mask, and his tone remained aloof.

“Daae evaded apprehension. He met the same fate as Rothchild’s target from last month,” he said, citing the crazed man who had walked straight into a quarantined building. 

Rotti hummed, resting his generous chin atop his steepled fingers. “Is that so? You saw this with your own eyes?”

“No,” Erik answered, his gaze direct. “But there was proof enough. Daae was missing from his home. Witnesses said they saw him enter the building. He left behind no significant wealth or assets to divvy up. He had nothing.”

Rotti waved away his words. “Fine, fine. No matter. What is one sick man in a sea of desperate souls, hmm?” Rotti gave Erik a searching look, usually employed to leech out some terrible, precious information. The method never worked on Erik, as he knew. He might as well have been made of stone.

“There is something that might be done to serve as recompense, however…” Rotti’s voice trailed off.

“Oh?” Erik feigned interest.

“Yes.” Rotti’s eyes gleamed, and Erik knew he had walked into a trap.

“The girl Daae lived with. A daughter.”

Erik internally cursed. Of course Rotti would know about that.

“How might a child serve as recompense for the missing organs?”

“The child, I have it on good authority, is actually a young woman. No, do not lie to me, Erik, I know that you spared the father.” Erik made to open his mouth, but closed it promptly. Damn, the man is near omniscient. That talent should belong to me alone. 

“So I left the man to die in his bed. What of it? As I said, he has no wealth or assets that could make up for his debt. What would be the point in hassling the girl?”

“The point, my ugly friend, is that we can harvest her organs in place of her father’s.”

Erik felt a chill sweep down his spine. He shuddered. What was wrong with him? 

Belatedly, he recognized it for what it was. 

He had cared about Daae, and now he cared what happened to the girl. Why was he feeling things now, when he hadn’t cared about anyone in 25 years? 

He stared back at Rotti unrepentantly. He would not do this thing that was asked of him, not this time. 

As if sensing Erik’s defiance, Rotti straightened, his eyes flashing dangerously. “I warn you Erik, do not test me. I have been lenient with you these past years, as our little arrangement has always been mutually satisfactory.” He straightened his spine, lowering his hands to the desk. “Let me remind you, I was the one who graciously took you in when your parents abandoned you, handing you over to Repo rather than protecting you. I was the one who brought you out from under the shadow of hatred and discrimination, seeing past your unsalvageable face. And all I have ever asked for in return is your loyalty and service. Is that too much to ask?” 

Rotti looked down at the brains, and began dumping them into the box from which they came, signalling that the discussion was over.

“Bring me the girl’s organs, Erik, and we will forget your slip up. Your perfect record will remain in tact, and I will ignore this foolish act of defiance.”

Erik’s eyes blazed behind the helmet. He said nothing, stood, and gave a mocking, respectful bowing of the head. This was far from over, and he would be damned if Rotti Largo got the better of him.

 

He redoubled his efforts in researching the girl. 

She was clean. Not one surgery with Geneco, not even a removal of her appendix. She was entirely independent of them.

Not that it mattered. Geneco’s methods of debt collecting were Congress-approved, and its’ actions were based on Rotti’s whim. If Rotti wanted Christine’s organs, Geneco’s or not, he would have them.

Some wintry, in-denial part of himself whispered that he shadowed her to find a weakness to help him take her out, but it was a lie and he knew it. The research had turned into curiosity, enthralment. He knew everything he would have needed to know to take out a target, but it wasn’t enough. He wanted to know more about the girl with the heavenly voice. He needed to know more.

He was finding out less substantial things about her, such as the type of the cleaner she preferred using at the old woman’s house, or her small, yet impressive, repertoire. He knew that she breathed incorrectly, that she struggled with her lower register, that she sometimes wore her hair in braids like a child, which really was delightful - 

It was at that point that Erik knew he was doomed. 

His had gone from seeking out her father’s death, to desiring to keep her safe to protect her music, to becoming truly fond of her. And with that fondness came a desperation to keep her from Geneco.

As well as an idea.

It was extremely risky. Rather than freeing her from Geneco’s collar, it would strap it around her neck. Still, he couldn’t see a better option, save removing her from the city.

And really, where could she go in such a world where she would be any safer?

No. The answer laid in shifting Rotti’s perception of her value. In this way at least, Erik could keep an eye on her, and make sure her heart stayed firmly in her chest where it belonged.

For days he silently trailed her, seeking the perfect moment in which he could make himself known and propose his idea for keeping her safe. But the girl remained staunchly scheduled. Every day was the same thing. She would leave her house early in the morning, walk to the Valerius house, performed her tasks, then leave before sunset. She would remain in her house for the rest of the day, always by herself, staring blankly at the walls or crying over old pictures of her father. 

This existence was a slow descent into hell anyways, Erik told himself. Even if he didn’t intrude into her life, her soul would die anyways.

It continued like this continually in maddening repetition. And then one day, something changed. 

He had heard of places like these.

Seedy underground nightclubs that boasted a reprieve from the heartless, slowly-dying world above. Customers of all walks of life inhibited its walls. It was a music club, but certain nights were an exhibit of all kinds of passion and art: spoken word, visual, performance, dance, instrumental, song. It was an institute of the collective, a place of sanctuary. People could come here on one secret, designated day of the month, and let loose, enjoying everything from clean tap water to stiff, top-shelf Bourbon.

But one thing was all-encompassing. It was a Zydrate-free zone. 

It was for that reason alone that Erik wasn’t appalled that Christine was singing at one of these places. 

Zydrate, for a time, had simultaneously been the bane of Erik’s existence and his reason for living. After his multitude of failed skin grafts and reconstructive surgeries, he had gotten hooked on Z. It took several painful years to kick the habit. He liked to think it was the reason he had agreed to Rotti’s proposal in the first place. His mind had been too Zydrate-addled to have any proper idea of who he was selling his soul to.

Still, despite the notable absence of Zydrate in the club, the place was illegal. The building had once been under commercial use, but had fallen behind on rent (of course) and sold to GeneCo Properties (of course). It was therefore quite risky that those hiding from GeneCo were illegally occupying their property once a month.

He watched her closely, sticking to the shadows and keeping to himself. He hardly stuck out, which was something he was always grateful for, whereas she stood out like a rose in a garden of weeds. He draped himself in black from cowl to steel-toed boot, his black mask in place, and she was a vision of softness in a simple spaghetti-strapped purple dress and low silver heels. Her beautiful, untrained voice continued to tantalize his senses, even in this dungheap, and her sweet expression of serenity nearly took his breath away. To have such peace, to be close enough to touch it…

He tempered that line of thinking. It was Z calling, and Erik never wanted to pick up the phone again.

There are other kinds of addictions, his mind whispered savagely. 

Watching her glide off the stage and into the offices upstairs, he couldn’t help but concede the point. He followed.

She slipped into the last room at the end of the hallway. He pressed his ear to the door, and when no voices spoke to signal someone else’s presence, he slipped inside, too.

She turned around sharply, a coat dangling off of one arm. Her face went white as a sheet. 

“Who are you?!” 

“Do not be alarmed. I have no intention of harming you.” 

She didn’t appear convinced. He took a step forward, which she immediately voiced with a step backwards. She grabbed the nearest object to her, a paperweight on a desk, and made to lodge it at him. He moved faster than she anticipated, however, and plucked it from her fingertips as if it were nothing.

She flinched away, her eyes almost completely white. “I’ll scream.”

“I’d prefer you didn’t.”

“What do you want?”

What did he want? Ah, that was the million dollar question, wasn’t it? Erik himself wasn’t even sure at this point.

“I want to help you, Christine.”

“How do you know my name?”

She was suspicious. That was a reasonable reaction to have to a man who had cornered her in an illegal speakeasy. Even so, it still stung.

He hesitated. He knew he would have to tell her the truth to get her to trust him in the long run, but it would not be pretty. There was a very good chance she would call for help.

“I will tell you, but it will be on the condition that you don’t call out.”

“And I should just trust that you’re not going to hurt me, is that it?”

“My dear girl, if that were my intention, the time in which we’ve been talking would have sufficient enough, and no one would have heard a sound.”

She gave a delicate little shudder, and he cursed his infernal tongue. Why couldn’t he act like a normal person?

Almost growling in frustration, he shook his head. “I will not harm you. I swear. But if it would make you feel better, you may choose any object in this room in which to wield, should the need arise.” She stared at him pointedly, and he rolled his eyes. “Any other object. Feel free to choose the most sharp, wicked looked thing you see. I promise I shall not take it.” To cement his point, he showed his hands, then clasped them behind his back.

She gave him a strange look, but made no move, and he took that as encouragement to move forward.

“One week ago, your father died, is that correct?”

She frowned. “How did you know that-”

“I was the one assigned to repossess his organs.”

Christine’s eyes widened in fear. She opened her mouth to scream, but Erik deftly lifted a hand over her mouth to prevent the noise from escaping.

“Wait,” he intoned in his most mellifluous voice, satisfied to see her eyes flutter at the sweet sound. “Please, Christine. Think. When your father died, was it because of repossession? No. He died peacefully, in his sleep, did he not?”

She nodded, his hand remaining over her mouth. 

“Can we therefore agree that I did not hurt him, even when I was ordered to, and therefore by extension will not harm you?”

She nodded again, but this time it was slower, more languid. They looked at each other for a moment, and suddenly coming to his senses, Erik hastily removed his hand.

“Forgive me,” he begged, conscious of how offensive it was to touch her. These bloodstained hands… He shook his head, trying to remain in the moment.

She said nothing, merely continued to watch him with wide eyes.

After he collected himself, he tried to reassert his commanding presence. “Because of this...mercy,” he improvised, “I suppose you could say, we have both attracted some unwanted attention.”

Christine spluttered, but her voice remained indoor-appropriate. “We?”

He grimaced behind the mask. “I’m afraid so. When the word got out that I had I had failed to perform my task, my...superior took notice. GeneCo is rather unsympathetic, as I’m sure you’ve heard.”

He knew from her expression alone that she did.

“So,” he continued, his voice altering to a more gentler tone, as opposed to the more commanding one from before, “It has been commanded that I take you in place of your father.”

Her eyes shot to the door, her entire frame tensing. “What-”

“But,” he said forcefully, using the full power of his voice to bring her eyes back to his masked face, “I will do no such thing. In fact, I have an alternative in mind. To protect you.”

Her eyes met his. She shook her head. “I don’t understand. Why would you bother? You don’t know me. And you don’t owe me anything.”

Of course she would ask the question he couldn’t answer. He refused to answer it himself. It was there, glaring at him from the corner of his mind, demanding attention, but like a stubborn little boy he refused to acknowledge it.

“I know you have great talent, Christine,” he said instead, using this as a way of answering her. “Your voice belongs in far greater venues than a decrepit sewer of a night club.” 

Indignation colored her cheeks. It was rather becoming.

“You should be playing to arenas and concert halls, not to this tonedeaf slime, swigging moonshine out of a dirty bottle, unable to distinguish talent if it spit in their eye.” His lips twisted in revulsion, imaging the future that was in store for her without his help. Even if she had been safe from Rotti Largo, would she have been content to let her supremely divine gift tarnish down here with the rats? Be errand girl by day, and neglected chanteuse by night? The thought was abhorrent. Almost as abhorrent as a future in which Christine Daae was no longer alive.

“I do not say this to mock you. I can offer you something better. A situation in which your talent can be appreciated by the masses, and you are protected from Rotti Largo. Win-Win, if you like.”

“And what would this ‘situation’ entail?” she asked dubiously.

“Becoming the voice and face of GeneCo,” he replied simply.

Her jaw dropped. She stared at him long enough that he felt the discomfort intimately, but did his best to match her disbelieving stare.

“You’re insane,” she muttered.

He stiffened, anger coursing through his cold veins. After a beat, he remembered that she was simply in shock, and did not intend to inflict pain. He relaxed. Some. “You would not be the first to say so,” Erik answered dryly, but she continued as if she had not heard him.

“You want me to turn myself over to GeneCo, to whore myself out.” Erik winced neatly at the word. “How could you suggest that? Even if you’re not lying about this, I’d be GeneCo’s prisoner. Forever. What kind of a life is that?”

“It is a life. There is not much music in death.”

“There’s not much music in life, either,” she said bitterly.

He inclined his head in acknowledgement, in respect. Even, perhaps, in solidarity. She was by no means foolish or naive. One could not survive in such a world being as such. “It’s a better alternative to what lies down the road for you at present. I have already refused to do you harm, Christine, but there is no stopping another Repo Man from coming after you. And there is only so much I can do to protect you.”

She winced, the truth hitting her cruelly. He knew he was right, but that didn’t prevent the pity that welled within him for her. She had just lost her father, and he was telling her that her only choice was to trust the man who would have killed him. It was an impossible situation, but he would make her see reason. She would not die.

She sat down on the chair behind the desk, staring at her hands. He could almost see her weighing her options, watching the tiny synopses fire in her brain, helping her to decide what to do. It was a tough choice, and he did not envy her for it. If he were in her shoes, he would not trust him, either.

Several moments of silence passed while she looked at her hands and he looked at her. In time, her voice, small and fluttery as a bird, drew his attention. “I will agree on one condition.”

“Anything,” he said, too readily.

She closed her eyes, her brow wrinkling. “Tell me why you helped my father.” She looked up sharply. “I saw the mark on his arm. I know what you did. He was in so much pain, it was why I left, why I wasn’t able to…” She trailed off, pain etching across her brow. She took a shuddery breath, and started again. “Help me to understand your motivation behind all of this,” she finished in one steady breath.

Her request cut through him like a knife. It was a tall order, but he knew he would do a great deal more for her if asked. Without being prompted, and knowing it was the only thing to do to make her understand, he took in a generous breath and began to sing.

Her eyes widened comically at the sound, her eyes following its’ source to the direction of his exposed mouth. Her gaze was immovably upon his lips, watching the sound form and release from inside his throat. He sang something modest, yet compelling enough to move her, because what was the purpose of music if not to make people understand each other more clearly? It was a luxury ill-afforded to him, seized upon only when not doing so meant the death of the soul. He dared not look at her, but felt as if in that tiny room, their souls had been become acquainted for the very first time.

When he finished, he returned his gaze to her face. She was mute, with twin streaks of glassy tears running down her porcelain face. She was more beautiful than words. But Erik knew triumph, because in her face he could see that she understood.

She licked her lips hesitantly, calling forth her choked voice. “I’ll do it.”

**Author's Note:**

> So, what do you think? Please post feedback. I'm considering continuing on with this story, but I wanted to see if it would spark any interest. If so, I'll try to continue on. I have an endgame, but I had planned to just let this little mess I wrote be pushed into the world and received as-is. 
> 
> Anyways, please let me know what you think, and if you'd like to see more!


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